


Human Guinea Pig

by notgingerandrude



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All For Science, Anal Fingering, Begging, Bondage, Bottom John, Established Relationship, Experiments, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Bottoming, I swear, I'm not a pervert, Johnlock - Freeform, Kinky, M/M, Science, Sherlock is very kinky, Smut, Vibrators, porn with a little plot, semi-dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notgingerandrude/pseuds/notgingerandrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John promised Sherlock a night of experimentation. He's just a bit nervous of what that might mean for him. Smut ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Guinea Pig

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic on here, hopefully not my last...

“Are you sure about this, Sherlock?” John asked, biting his lip nervously as he looked at the stirrups protruding from the table, “What’s this for, again?”  
“Science, John,” Sherlock reminded him, “Science. I’m going to experiment to find the effects of various contraptions on the male species”  
“That sounds horrible,” John shuddered, and rubbed a hand over his face.  
“It won’t be, and you promised,” he replied, prying the hand away and kissing his lips lightly. John sighed as he visibly gave in, making his lover brighten. “On the table, please”  
John reluctantly climbed on the table, putting his legs in the stirrups, feeling ridiculous. Sherlock was organising tools that John couldn’t see and tutted when he finally turned.  
“John, please, without your clothes,” he scolded and John got up quickly, blushing.  
“What?” he stuttered, pulling his hands under his arms like a defence mechanism. His breath shook.  
“All in the name of science, John,” Sherlock smiled.  
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,” he accused, and Sherlock dropped his smile immediately.  
“Of course not, dear, it’s strictly for science,” he nodded and John scoffed in reply.  
“I’m sure it is,” he smirked, as Sherlock started to unbutton his shirt for him.

Once John was safely in the stirrups, Sherlock strapped his ankles and wrists down, so he was leather bound. “Uh, is this really necessary?”  
“Completely, John. I don’t want you to be a danger to yourself,” he smirked again. John pulled against them slightly, testing their strength.  
“Danger to- Sherlock what the hell are you going to do to me?!”  
“It’s alright, John,” he repeated, drawling his reassurance. John didn’t feel as comforted as he should. He was completely naked in front of Sherlock. Although it wasn’t like they hadn’t- well.

Those times had been in the dark, with hastily quick fingers and desperate kisses. Perhaps like it was an iniquity or maybe if they hadn't hurried then one of them might just disappear forever. One of them would melt like ice, warming in the heat of the other's love. But this- this was close. This was intimate. This was John bearing, not only his body, but everything he had to offer him. If his hands were free- he would have covered himself.

Sherlock gazed at him, and John found it unnerving. Sherlock didn’t just look at him, but he saw him. His eyes seemed to caress John’s skin, dragging across his flesh. John shivered. If he had to choose anyone to make himself vulnerable for- it would definitely be Sherlock. John felt sick. He felt as if bugs were crawling all over him, with red hot feet, tiny and fast. “Why are you looking at me like that?” John asked finally, unnerved.  
“You’re beautiful, John,” Sherlock sighed. He hated it when Sherlock said his name like that. Like he was special. Like he was everything. His voice seemed to love those letters. “You need to relax, sweetie”. Sherlock clicked his tongue, and approached him gently. His eyes asked permission. John nodded. Sherlock smiled, and laid his hands on John’s outstretched, spread knees. His eyes never left John’s face.

When Sherlock ran his warmed hands along his thighs, John looked away- because it was easier- and he could be less mortified. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, and Sherlock smiled at him.  
“It’s okay John, you can trust me. If you want to stop- we will,” he assured. Sherlock would never intentionally hurt John.

Sherlock’s back was now facing him, so John couldn’t quite see what he was doing. “You need to relax, John,” his voice echoed in the room, “Or it might make this process a lot harder”.  
“Why is there a process?” John retaliated, brow furrowed.  
“It’s safer”. It’s true. John had seen enough anal incidents in his time as a doctor to know that. “Relax, John,” he cooed, making him roll his eyes. He’d wished he’d stop telling him to do that. He knew that he had to relax, and he knew what was happening- he’s not a child.

Sherlock’s hands were on his knees again, but now they were slick with warmed oil, and John shivered at the touch. Goosebumps erupted along the surface of his skin, and he couldn’t help the sigh the left his lips. The, oddly skilful, hands ran firmly along his legs, massaging his aching muscles. They caressed, practically forcing him to relax himself, skin tinted with an almost delicious shade of light pink. It begun at his cheeks, sliding down his chest and resting at his increasingly interested cock.

Sherlock’s expression was irritatingly smug, as he relished the fact that he could get John hard so easily. It was almost annoying, because Sherlock would be constantly using his ‘power’ for evil. He’d sometimes make him get one up in the middle of a case, sitting in Lestrade’s office with his legs conveniently crossed, and leave him like that to suffer. John guessed it had to be something to do with the way he moved. The way his hips swayed, in almost pure legato form, teasing and touching. Scandalising brushes of warm fingers that brought John to the edge, and kept him there, refusing to push him over. He’d always have to make it up to him later in the evening, but Sherlock didn’t mind one bit.

The oiled hands ran down his thighs, making their way across his skin. John’s tanned flesh heated noticeably, and one of the warmed hands wrapped around his dick, making his breath catch. “Sher-,” he cut himself off, not waiting to give him the satisfaction of hearing him moan.  
“What was that, John?” he mocked, a smug smile plastered on his face as he stroked him, “Come on, let me here those pretty little noises”.  
John groaned in, what he hoped sounded like, protest. “Get on with it, Sherlock,” he hurried out, so he could quickly supress another desperate moan. John could have sworn he’d heard Sherlock chuckle. The other slicked hand ran down his leg, and toyed at his entrance, making him whimper needily.  
“Is this okay?” he heard him say, as he pressed his fingertip inside. John nodded, and rolled his eyes. He hoped that he wouldn’t need to organise some sort of written consent for Sherlock to get the fuck on with fucking him. Although, secretly, he liked that he was being so gentle with him. He’d never bottomed before, and he liked that he could trust Sherlock to care about him and not just ram it right in there.    
“Yes, Sherlock,” he replied, and feigned a yawn, trying to get him to speed things up.  
“I hope I’m not boring you,” he commented absently, and retracted both his hands. John let out a protesting whine, instantly regretting his mocking yawn, and Sherlock smirked. “It’s okay,” he assured, and John saw him scoop out a more generous amount of lubricant. Sherlock’s finger returned, pressing against him. It pressed further, and John’s breath stopped. “Is that alright?”  
“Yes, fucking hell, Sherlock. Get on with it,” he rushed. The taller man raised an eyebrow at him, and pressed a little further. When the burning subsided, and Sherlock’s finger was completely sheathed in John, he very carefully inserted a second beside the first. John’s breath was short, and his thoughts were barely coherent. “Sher-,” he breathed out, cut off by his own throat hitching. Sherlock’s fingers pushed against the walls inside him, opening and closing, and stretching him out. Tears pressed at the corner of John’s eyes, as the pain melted away into pleasure. One of his fingers brushed against his prostate he clenched up, muscles tightening and breath hitching. Sherlock hummed and John felt it through the fingers inside him.  
“Shh,” he soothed, and kept stretching him. He rubbed his other hand along his leg, trying to relax him. “It’s okay”.

If John had to pick an exact time when the needing started, it would be then. An insatiable requisite that began deep in his abdomen; triggered exactly when Sherlock told him it’s okay. Like a voracious hunger, impossible to calm. It made him desperate, and almost wrenched a moan from him. “Please,” he whispered and a tiny whimper escaped. He didn’t care about his dignity anymore, he just wanted to come. He didn’t care that Sherlock had won. “Please, Sherlock”. Reduced to begging. “Please”. He didn’t mind. Sherlock’s fingers retreated, slowly so that he wouldn’t retighten, and he turned back to the table. John heard a short burst of a buzzing sound and he looked over to Sherlock, quickly, because it couldn’t be. Because why the hell would Sherlock have a-  
“Ready, John?”  
“Sh-Sherlock?” He had a, thankfully, small vibrator in his hand- all lubed up and ready to go.  
“Is this okay?” he asked, eyebrows knitted together. John breathed out, and nodded, throat caught and tightened. He knew he trusted Sherlock, with his life, and he knew that he’d never deliberately hurt him.

He felt it pressing against him and, at John’s confirming nod, it breached him almost too suddenly. John gave an involuntary gasp at the pain, the tool half inside of him, and Sherlock winced. “Sorry,” he grimaced, holding the instrument still. He rubbed John’s leg, trying to draw comfort and assure him. He held it still for a second, waiting patiently for John to adjust. “Are you okay?” John really wished he’d stop asking that.  
“Sherlock,” he breathed out strategically, “Please”. He focused on his breathing, trying to ignore the stretching pain inside him.  
“What, John?” he asked, and twisted the vibrator slightly. He saw John’s throat hitch, and his eyes fluttered slightly.  
“Wait,” he managed, and Sherlock nodded empathetically. John willed himself to adjust. To breathe. To relax. He bit his lip, and Sherlock frowned and pulled it free.  
“Don’t,” it sounded like a command but John couldn’t quite hear him over the blood rushing through his ears. Sherlock kissed at his bent knee, the only flesh in reach, and smiled. John fixated on the needy feeling that it stirred, and breathed.  
“Now,” he nodded, and the other man raised an eyebrow.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Fuck, Sherlock! Please!” Sherlock raised both eyebrows at his profanity, affronted and only slightly turned on by his filthy mouth. He pushed further, carefully, and watched John groan loudly in response. He felt a warming pressure spread across his forehead, as if someone had just set his brain alight. His breath felt like it had exploded in his throat, and he gasped loudly. “Sher-”. He tried to say his name, to ask him what the hell just happened. His thoughts were scrambled, damaged, almost completely destroyed. Deep in his subconsciousness, he realised that Sherlock must have touched his prostate again. In his simulated condition, the shock of that pleasure hit him with full force.  
“John?” he asked, brow furrowed and thoughts sprinkled with worry.  
“More, fuck, please,” he spat out, words fragmented and tightened. Sherlock smiled smally, and pushed it against him. John’s body jolted and Sherlock switched the device on. The blogger swore he felt his ribs crashing down around his thumping heart.

John’s body was convulsing. His leg kept twitching, eyes long since closed, torso muscles wound up. “Shhh,” Sherlock hushed him, and John realised somewhere in the back of his mind that he was screaming. Literally screaming. It was almost all too much. “Breathe,” his lover reminded him, and John tried to. Sherlock’s hands touched his dick again, and John almost came, except he figured that the detective had worked a cock ring on. John wanted to die.  
“Are you okay?”  
John shook his head furiously, as if he had lost control over his own neck.  
“Do you want to stop?”  
He shook his head again, as a lengthy moan spilled from his lips. His lips. They were bright red and swollen. He kept biting them, trying to keep quiet. John’s jaw was locked open in a silent scream, face reddened from a lack of oxygen, neck bulging at his strained vocal chords. His limbs thrashed at the restraints, the skin around his wrists and ankles beginning to turn a tortured blood-red. Delicious bruises were forming against his flesh, around his collarbone, and under his ear. Sherlock stepped back, and admired his work, he smiled.

John's throat was clenching, throbbing and choking him. Every single fibre within him was begging, screaming for something. Needing.

His toes were too hot, but his legs were numb, thighs twitching without mercy. His torso was long since flushed red, stomach that was clenched far too tightly, and nipples peaked under Sherlock’s skilful hands. The colour ran down his body, to his cock head, which was a brilliant shade of purple. He was a fish thrown from water, helpless and screaming. Everything in him screamed to come, thoughts animalistic and needy. More and now and mine. His bottom lip was abused by his teeth. Skin wrecked and bleeding so, when John bit it harshly again, Sherlock shook his head and gently coaxed it free again. "You're going to hurt yourself," he hushed and John let out a whimpering moan at the sound of his wrecked voice.

Ecstasy.

John was so beautiful. His eyes were almost glowing their light blue, emphasised by the redness in his skin. “Breathe, baby,” Sherlock cooed, stroking his skin, “You need to breathe”. John nodded, and expelled a controlled breath, still unable to speak. It was almost too much for him. His torso shook uncontrollably, heart leaping in his chest, still breathing purposely. The cool air soothed him, and he calmed slightly, until Sherlock angled the vibrator further. His exhale moulded into a frantic whimper, and he moaned almost desperately. His hand was tightly clenched around one of the leather restraints, and his other was digging half-moon shapes into the palm of his hand. His knuckles were washed white, fists tremoring along with the rest of his body.

“Sherlock, please,” he managed quickly, before another breathy moan could escape. His over-sensitised nerves screamed for release. He needed, needed, to finish. He needed this to be done; he needed to be pushed over the edge. He needed to come.  
“Please, what?”  
“Please, please, Sherlock,” he tried, words almost incoherent, followed by a final, “Shit”.  
“What do you want?” the taller man asked, although he thought he knew the answer.  
“Fuck. Me,” John finally choked out, and Sherlock’s eyes darkened. He let out another moan, but it choked short when Sherlock bit his shoulder roughly. He barely noticed Sherlock’s other hand pull the cock ring off, fingers brushing up with it. And finally, finally, John felt a warmth rush through him. He was coming- whether he wanted to or not- and oh sweet lord he was coming. His entire body twitched with the effort, as that fire burned through him. When he was set alight, but didn't burn. The thick, white stripes flew from him. They flew, and landed on his bare thighs, his chest, the floor, and one splatter struck Sherlock’s own cheek.

The wave of silence that floated between them was unmatched. John's throat was raw from his shouts, and he rasped something incoherent to Sherlock. The taller man somehow understood, and untied John's hands and feet, wiping his cheek. His limbs were deadweight, and Sherlock had to move them from their cramped positions for him. “What did you think, then?" he asked, smiling timidly. John huffed out a laugh. What did he think? What did he think? He thought... he couldn’t think. His mind was dead. Blissed out and completely unresponsive. He hummed approvingly as Sherlock smiled and picked him up. "Wha' 'bout you?" he managed, adrenaline fading. Sherlock just smiled again and shook his head. John curled into him.  
"You can't even hold your own head up, let alone...," he smirked and laid him out on their shared bed. John mumbled his protest, brow furrowed. “It’s okay, baby, you can get me tomorrow,” he promised, and John smiled- satisfied.


End file.
